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Deal With the Demon
Jake I can’t go home. I can’t face Julia. Releasing a groan of frustration, I fall back onto the hotel bed and stare, unseeing, at the lumpy patterns pockmarking the popcorn ceiling. My stomach churns from dread and alcohol as my mind replays this afternoon’s phone call with Julia. She sounded so cold, so detached. And she mentioned leaving, didn’t she? I was already a few shots deep at the hotel bar, and now I can’t quite remember the exact details of our conversation. Seeing her contact pop up on my phone sent a teasing thrill of hope through me. Part of me hoped she’d be desperate at finding me gone and beg for me to come back. Instead, she asked about the builder and lectured me about the f*****g garage. Tears prick at the edges of my eyes, and I let them fall. I feel pathetic.
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